There's a distinct connection between confection
and the sweet affection for coconut cream pie
on the fourth day of July when the flag flies high.
And there's that satisfaction that comes in the reaction
to ghosts knocking on doors and when candy is stored
in the bellies of the ghouls who played hooky from
school just the day before.

Once more, there's the turkey and the feasting
and the rising of the yeast thing in the bread
most certainly fed to Aunt Myrtle
who insisted on wearing her girdle every day of her life.
You know her, the wife, of Uncle Tim. She married him
on the rainy day in December. Don't you remember? 

It was a calamity in the proximity of a bomb blast.
Alas, the marriage didn't last much past the reception.
But their was the conception, which was the reason
for that season, of the wedding. Not to mention

the stockings that Uncle Tim had to explain
whilst he was in pain 'neath Myrtle's weight.
Oh, the hate that was born (and it was Christmas morn!)
when she found him--you know, Tim, dressing up
in her undies, eating chocolate sundaes, 
while wearing her pearls, pretending he was a girl.
Oh, the snickering and the bickering
that continued on into the New Year.

But listen, Dears, he was just relaxing.
There was no need for her axing
away at his head. Now he's dead.
Poor ole Tim; he never made it to Valentine's Day.
It was Myrtle's way of revenge, when she became
unhinged, after the viewing. And then
came the suing by his mother and his sisters. 
It was the talk that following Easter
When it made the papers. The headlines read,
"Cross Dressing Caper"

So it goes, in the poetry that flows without much
direction, except maybe for the wandering imagination
about holidays and connections that started with
the confections, connections, and affections
for coconut cream pie. Boy, how time flies
from one year to the other.

It really wasn't a bother to write this little rhyme--
perhaps a waste of time; but certainly no crime.
All that I ask is just how to stop this task
and this verse. Ah, the curse.
I think I'm getting worse.
I'm at the brink of poetic insanity.
All is vanity, my friend.

Finally,  

I found

The End

Kathy Lockhart
12/28/07